


Moonless Night Missives

by smithy_of_words



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, Right after the Deep Roads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 11:33:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2730929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithy_of_words/pseuds/smithy_of_words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke's friends respond to Bethany's being taken to the Circle after returning from the Deep Roads.<br/>Isabela sends a message with words, as well as her knives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonless Night Missives

They took her.

Those damned Templars had taken her.

Isabela wore a path back and forth across Varric’s room in the Hanged Man, thoughts racing through her mind relentlessly.

_They took her to lock her away—what if they make a go at her—of course they’ll make a go at her, she’s beautiful—she’s strong, she can take care of herself but still…_

_What if they try to make her Tranquil? What if she resists and is killed? What if—_

Her thoughts were disrupted by a fierce argument taking place out in the tavern’s main hall.

Tevene swears and trade tongue fought for dominance in the now-stunned-into-silence room.

Brawls and drunken rows were common, but glowing elves and apostates—maybe even maleficars—that was incredibly disconcerting.

Several patrons stumbled to the walls, making way for what was sure to be a fascinating, if terrifying, fight.

Fenris slammed his hands down on a table in emphasis to the taller man.

“I don’t care about what you think, abomination! There is a reason your kind are bound by the Chantry. ‘Magic is made to serve man, and never to rule over him!’ The Magisters forgot that and let power and greed corrupt them. This is a fate that Bethany will avoid now!”

Incensed, Anders towered over Fenris, his frame shaking with the force of electricity and energy from the Fade. He appeared to pulse and crackle like a fire.

“Her fate? Her fate will be to be locked up like a bird in a cage, never getting to have the freedom she knows exists, and that she rightfully deserves! To go from here, to a gilded shit-hole of a dungeon? It’s unbelievable. We’ll be lucky to see her again before she dies of old age—if not sooner—those Templar dogs will smite you as soon as smile at you.”

Fenris bristled, raising a glowing fist before him in threat.

Anders’ eyes began to turn a shade of pale icy blue—it seemed Justice wasn’t pleased with the apparent threat to his vessel. 

Isabela’s eyes narrowed in thought; a raging Fade spirit wouldn’t just draw the Templars down on Anders alone, but would bring suspicion, and maybe charges, on everyone’s heads. She had spent enough time in jails and brigs to know how to get by, but she’d be damned if she was going to let herself be taken in for something as foolish as a squabble—much less people like Hawke or Merrill.

“Hey there, sweet thing,” she called out, boots clomping down the wooden steps to the landing. “Are my boys arguing over another girl? I’m hurt. What about me?”

She slung her arm over Ander’s shoulders, standing on her tip-toes to give his cheek a small peck.

No one would hear it, but she also whispered tersely into his right ear;

“You get any more out-of-control and Bethany will be the least of your worries. Get a hold of yourself.”

The air was thick and tense with anticipation—would there be blows? Demons summoned? The barkeep had bets on Fenris giving the mage a black eye, two to one…

But thankfully, the moment passed. Soon Anders’ eyes looked human again, albeit a bit unfocused.

Isabela gripped his arm tightly—he looked like he would pass out, as a drunkard would, swaying on their feet. Anders gripped a chair back, his normally pale hands whiter than usual, steadying himself.

Isabela raised an eyebrow, “You okay, sailor?”

Even Fenris, who usually didn’t shy away from making a scene if it proved his point, had taken stock of his surroundings. It was enough to make him inquire after Anders’ health—if not just for his own sake, but Isabela’s—not to mention Hawke, a known associate.

“I…I’m fine, I think. What was I talking about?”

Isabela tried to lighten the mood, “Did you hit your head or something? You seem stranger than usual… I know, let’s see if you’re all right by having you guess the color of my smalls.”

Anders’ face was beginning to look less ashen, and he worked up a small smile.

“It’s Tuesday, Isabela; you wear red on Tuesdays.”

Isabela gasped in mock offence, “Why, Ser! How improper of you,” but she looked relieved; at least a potential crisis had been avoided, if only just.

Thankfully, Varric had the timing of a true storyteller, bursting through the doors with a captive audience in the guise of two young women, one on either arm. He was just finishing another of his wildly embellished tales, gesturing madly.

“…I swear, it was this big! So, then I said--”

He saw the crowd still pressed to the walls, whispering and pointing.

“Woah! Blondie, the elf, and Rivani…did you plan on throwing a raucous party without me?”

He turned to the women at his side and suavely kissed their hands before striding forward;

“Sorry, ladies. We’ll finish talking another time; my friends here lost some money in Diamondback, and I’ve got to collect—otherwise, people will think they can walk all over me. I get enough of that as a dwarf, mind you…”

The women giggled, still flushed at the affection they received, chatting to each other happily.

Varric slapped a gold sovereign and some silver on the bar counter, yelling, “Come on, everybody! Free ale on me today; drink up!”

Slowly, the patrons of the Hanged Man cheered up, forgetting all about fighting elves and mages.

The din steadily increased with clinks of tankards and mugs, and as customers’ talking and joking resumed.

With the eyes in the room no longer focused on them, Varric gestured for the group to follow him back up the stairs to his room.

~

Later, after rearranging the things thrown into disarray by Isabela’s manic pacing, he sat in his large chair, waiting.

“Well? Come on, out with it. What’s gotten you two worked up—price of corn? I know, it’s terrible.”

Before Fenris or Anders could exchange any “He started it(s),” or “It’s his fault(s),” Isabela cut in;

“Bethany was taken to the Circle. It happened right after you got back from the Deep Roads yesterday. Templars were waiting at the manor, and she just…gave up—didn’t fight at all. Hawke hasn’t left her room since.”

Varric frowned, the lines etching deep into his brow.

Damn. Not Sunshine. After the darkspawn and living like dirt in Lowtown, it came to this? It wasn’t a good, or even just, ending at all…

Fenris pressed his lines into a thin line, “There is nothing we can do now, even if we wanted to take action. At least she’s a little safer there…no Carta dwarves or people trying to kill her on the streets.”

Anders snorted derisively, “No one trying to kill her, except the Templars…”

The four sat in silence, thinking, but saying nothing.

Finally, Isabela broke the silence, “Varric, you’re technically a writer, right? Can you help me send a letter to her? All I know is friend fiction and dirty Antivan ballads.”

Varric rolled his eyes, but smiled in his usual easy manner, “Hey, watch it, Rivani. You keep on being mean and you’ll never know what happens in Hard in Hightown.”

That earned him a genuine frown, with Isabela whining like a spoilt child, “O’ great and famous writer, please, please help me!”

Varric nodded sagely, “Oh, all right, young lady. But you’ll need to help me.”

Fenris eyed Anders warily as the latter stood.

“I have to go to the clinic and tend to some patients, but you have a good idea, for once; I’ll write a letter, too.”

Fenris’ brows knit in frustration. Aside from Hawke, Bethany was his first friend in Kirkwall, even as a mage.

Anders left, rubbing his temples, as if trying to press out the pain and fatigue that had set in.

As Isabela began to list out her thoughts, and Varric found clean parchment, Fenris found his eyes felt like they were being pricked by pins.

Varric sensed Fenris’ pained silence and tousled his white hair in affection.

“Hawke hasn’t finished teaching you your letters, right? I can help you craft a quick note.”

Fenris rubbed his eyes quickly, fiercely, face reddening with shame.

“Yes, I would…like that. Thank you.”

“Aww! My boys!,” Isabela cooed, throwing her arms around the two and pulling them into a tight embrace, much to Varric’s amusement and Fenris’ awkward sputtering.

~

After the letters had been drafted, and Isabela had added her requisite dirty drawings, Varric closed them with his signature red wax and family signet ring. It was one of the only constants in his relatively eventful life; the red wax and the ring, just as he had been taught…

Drawing a short cloak around her against the bitter Kirkwall night winds, Isabela moved stealthily from pillar to pillar near the Gallows.  As far as boons go, not having the moon shining brightly was a very good one. It made nighttime work so much easier for the cut-purses and working ladies not looking to get hauled in by Aveline’s guards.

(Unlike her predecessor, Aveline couldn’t be bribed or threatened, and could sniff out corruption as easily as one smells freshly baked bread by the baker.)

Isabela saw her mark a few paces off and briefly considered plunging a dagger in his throat out of pure spite at the whole situation. But it would call too much attention to her. Besides, she rationalized, Bethany had always hated unnecessary killing.

All the same, as she emerged from the shadows, she twirled a knife in her hand like an acrobat, just to look as full of menace as she felt.

“Marcus,” she called in a sing-song voice like velvet, “Remember me?”

The Templar turned to view the approaching figure.

Hmm…short-hemmed tunic, leather boots, and lots of gold jewelry…where had he seen her before? Oh, yes, the Rose!

Isabela strode forward like a cat toying with its prey, “You look very official with your big and impressive armor, but I’ve seen you naked—compensating a bit, are we?”

Marcus rolled his eyes, “What do you want, Isabela?”

She grinned, “Just a favor, love. I’ve got letters for an apostate you captured recently, by the name of Hawke. You’ll give them to her, and leave any responses you get with Jethann at the Rose. If I hear any correspondence has been opened prematurely, I’ll cut off your balls…such as they are.”

She glided forward, pressing her body close to him, pushing the parchment in his hands. She made sure to press her knife into his thigh through his robes too, for emphasis.

Marcus’ eyes widened, “Y-yes, Isabela. As you say. Now please, leave, before Meredith comes out and questions me as to my lateness.”

Isabela winked, leaving as smoothly and quickly as she had come.

 

The Gallows were quiet.

The fog rolled in, and there was no moonlight.


End file.
